


W.A.P.

by Becky_Blue_Eyes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen Live, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cunnilingus, Elia Martell Lives, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Like this is some smutty smut, Lyanna Stark Lives, Period-Typical Sexism, Porn, Porn With Plot, References to WAP by Cardi B, Rhaegar Targaryen Bashing, Robb Stark is a Gift, Sex Positive, There's dragons but they're not at all important lmao, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:53:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25905403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becky_Blue_Eyes/pseuds/Becky_Blue_Eyes
Summary: //now from the top, make it drop, that’s some W.A.P.////now get a bucket and a mop, that’s some W.A.P.//It appears that her betrothed is under the impression that ladies are still and silent in bed. She is more than happy to teach him otherwise. Rhaenys/Robb explicit smut; plot is minimal, sex is positive. Lyrics from "WAP" by Cardi B ft. Megan Thee Stallion
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Robb Stark/Rhaenys Targaryen (Daughter of Elia)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 77





	W.A.P.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t even like Cardi B for various reasons but this song? A vibe. And when I vibe to music I end up writing fanfiction
> 
> Disclaimer: GRRM can’t post a book without writing cunt at least five times but we gotta be honest with ourselves, there’s absolutely nothing sexy about the word cunt. It’s a slur in the US and a comma in Australia. What’s sexy about that? So we’re going back to the tried and true pussy, the sexiest of slang for certain types of genitalia. And with the recent release of WAP, we’re going in deep (lol)

It’s not like Rhaenys doesn’t get why her darling idiot betrothed is like this. Ask any given man in Westeros, and women exist in fours: septas, mothers, whores, and Dornish whores. Even princesses of the blood must choose between being the sweet Maiden, but not too maidenly lest they become a frigid prude, and being a wanton whore, but not too wanton lest they deserve being beaten like a dog. And ask any given man, be they married or Baelor reborn—they will all gladly be those beating hands, be the giver of shame to those they shame themselves over. It’s pathetic, really. They all crave the pussy, but gods forbid if a woman gains but a thimble of pleasure from her own.

Whatever. She would say fuck them all, but in this case she’d rather not. The only good men she’s met are either her blood uncles Oberyn and Doran who shouldn’t be fucked, or her heart uncle Jaime who she can’t fuck since Mother already does and they’re quite happy about it. Instead she grows up with Mother telling her that her worth is not a sheath for a sword, it’s her mind and her heart and her soul and even indeed her body. Mother, and Aunt Mellario, and Arianne, and the Sand Snakes, and Aunt Ashara—all whores, supposedly, who teach her to love herself and never stop. She grows up loved, and loving, and her chin raised high against those who would reduce her down to womanly parts. Aegon always laughs when she cuts them down to size, and his lovely wife Margaery links with her arm and arm as they claim their kingdom. When Aegon becomes King, she will be his Hand, and if any ickle lordling has an issue with a woman and her hands, they can catch hers. Or her dragon’s; to her amusement, all of their dragons—hers, Aegon’s, Daenerys’s, and cousin Shireen’s—are ladies too. Ladies who can lay eggs when it suits them, of course. There’s some whores in this House of Targaryen and Rhaenys can’t think of a better thing.

No, she’s never exercised that feminine ritual of self-loathing and self-consciousness. When Viserys is a little bitch about the new Andal succession law making Rhaenys the Princess of Dragonstone and the post-Rebellion marriage treaty making him a Baratheon, she tells him to take it up with her and his sweet Shireen. He never does. When the knaves in Aegon’s household try to flirt with her, she arcs an eyebrow and taps her nails against her spear. Extra long and extra sharp, and she can handle it better than they can handle their own cocks.

When she meets her betrothed Robb Stark when he’s a green boy of sixteen and she’s an imperious princess of eighteen, his eyes widen, she delights in his terror.

They are to marry to atone for her worthless wretched father’s sins during the Rebellion, may he burn in the seven hells. She hopes Lady Lyanna poisoned him before he rode out to the Trident and got his shoulder staved in by Lord Baratheon, she hopes Lyanna tore his throat half out as that’s what Rhaenys would do to a rapist. When Mother found out what Rhaegar did to Lyanna, she was smart. She welcomed him back and stood by his side when he was crowned king. Then a moon later he was dead from a _sudden illness_ and no one mourned him, certainly not Mother or Lyanna!

Now Lyanna lives in Braavos with darling Jon, and Jon’s direwolf Ghost in a manse Mother pays for and wants for nothing other than continuing her water dancing lessons. When Rhaenys and Aegon last visited Jon, they seemed happy and that’s what they deserve for the rest of their days. But since Mother won’t legitimize Jon until Aegon has two sons, to finish paying the debt to the North Rhaenys will be the future Lady of Winterfell with her fat dowry. She’s known this since she was twelve and Mother sat down with her and a selection of ladies from the North. Wylla Manderly; Lyra Mormont; and Meera Reed, all now Rhaenys’s darling friends and dearest companions. They taught her how Northern women have steel spines to weather the harsh cold weather and harsh cold men. Not that they suspect Robb to be like the worst of the Umbers, far from it. Rhaenys know from the get-go that Robb will be an honorable man, perhaps a stupid one too but good, and entirely intimidated by her crown and scepter. To have such a good heart in a man with such a chiseled jaw and broad shoulders and long fingers? She is glad for it.

She is not glad for how Robb sees sex.

On Mother’s direction they won’t marry until Robb is eighteen, so Rhaenys assumes he’s tumbled with a washer woman or a whore at least once. She can’t ask without coloring his opinion of her, and she can’t have Jaime or Oberyn ask since they might cut off his head if he answers wrong. She has Aegon take Robb out drinking and probe in his gentle mastermind way. From what Aegon reports back, it’s all disappointing. He’s slept with exactly one prostitute before because his foster brother forced him, and she wasn’t even wet! Rhaenys gasps. “He didn’t even notice the difference? Are you sure?”

“His mother is very conservative, his father won’t speak of these matters with him, and his uncle is a ranger at the Wall. He’s green as grass and not in a good way.” Aegon pats her arm in sympathy. They spent formative years in the Water Gardens and Sunspear and the dusty streets of the shadow city where the wine is dark as blood and the sun heats you from the inside out. There Rhaenys learned how a man ought to treat the pussy. They both know what they like, and Aegon has it with Margaery. What will Rhaenys have? To not realize that a paid whore knows how to fake it—does he even know how to give a lord’s kiss? To eat pussy like a starving man?

She will not stand for that, nor kneel. She seeks him out more in the gardens and the library and the dance floor, and he’s a parfait Florian knight out of the tales but is pitifully clumsy in flirtation. Oh, she still appreciates the terror that flares in his eyes when she leans in and asks her pointed question with pointed teeth—a husband should always have a touch of fear towards his wife so that he remembers not to beat her. But she must know how he truly sees her. Does he see her as a mother? A septa? A Dornish whore? Rhaenys is Rhaenys, capable of all three, but most of all she is herself and deserving respect. Consideration. Love. Pleasure.

His fingers tremble when she holds his hand and she wonders if he’s truly never been with a woman before. Not even a tender romance with some Northern lady? It’s sweet in a way. Jaime cackles and Oberyn smirks and Mother laughs when Rhaenys tells them so. Mother pats her cheeks and says, “He will be good for you given time, my sun. Just be honest with him about your needs and his. Honesty is of utmost importance.” She and Jaime smile at each other; Rhaenys’s heart always lightens to see them together, even after years of their open secret romance.

“And enthusiasm,” Oberyn says with a wink, and Mother slaps him upside the head while Rhaenys giggles into her hands.

So when they’re three goblets of wine into one of Margaery’s private parties, where Shireen coils Viserys around her finger until he forgets that he was ever a Targaryen and Daenerys sinks her talons into the Arryn heir until he’s ready to sell off the Vale for her desires, Rhaenys smiles at Robb. She brushes her hair over her shoulder to make a waterfall of black ringlets. She leans in so he can smell her jasmine perfume. And she asks him, “Have you ever given the lord’s kiss?”

He flushes red. “I…my lady princess, we shouldn’t speak of such—”

“It’s not hard, it just requires practice.” She crosses her leg and it brushes against his. She sees him shiver. He turns eighteen in three months; that’s enough time to practice before she’s pledged to him until they’re dust in the ground. He won’t meet her gaze and Shireen smirks from her perch on Viserys’s lap. Shireen told Rhaenys that, judging from her father Stannis’s own misadventures with her mother Cersei, Robb might be terrified of the pussy. Men aren’t taught to treat it right, they have to unlearn the idea of splitting women into fours. And when Robb mutters that he would not shame Rhaenys, she nods.

Yes, that must be it. It appears that her betrothed is under the impression that ladies are still and silent in bed. She is more than happy to teach him otherwise.

“I need some air, would you accompany me?” A blatant proposition, and yet he seems desperate to leave the room where Viserys stifles his laughter into Shireen’s neck and Aegon has his hand curled beneath Margaery’s knee. And this is Kings Landing, cool and pale and respectable. He would faint in Hellholt where Arianne’s husband Daemon once laid down her on the ground and dove right in, made her scream until she gave him a ring and a new house name.

What was it Arianne said about how it should sound? Macaroni in a pot? Rhaenys laughs and Robb raises his eyebrows. She leads him around the balcony that connects her rooms to Margaery’s and shoves him inside. “Princess?”

“Rhaenys,” she corrects him. He shivers again. She walks forward and he walks backward until his legs hit the back of her bed. “My name is Rhaenys, and I am to be your wife. You know what they say about husbands and wives?” He shakes his head, and she gently tilts his chin up. “Husbands and wives, men and women…or men and men, women and women, whichever way you’d like. It’s all about liking it. And what I’d like, Lord Robb, is your face between my thighs.”

He inhales sharply. His pupils are so large in the low light, and his tongue flicks out to wet his lips. A nice red tongue, what would it be like to feel it against her? He reaches out and lays a hesitant hand on her hip. “My parents spoke to me of honor, Pr— _Rhaenys._ How it is an honor to marry you, how I am to honor you always, how there are certain things that…are not honorable, to do to you.”

“Such as?”

“Forcing you to do things for my pleasure.”

Rhaenys tilts her head. “You think you’d be forcing me? When I just told you that I want you to—”

“I’ve thought of things,” and his voice is low, raw, makes Rhaenys shiver from the top of her head down to her toes. “Whenever you have your hair down your back, when you send grown men scurrying with just your words, when you walk by and I can smell your perfume…” he rests his forehead against her stomach. “Gods, I want to _ravage_ you sometimes and it scares me because I don’t ever want to hurt you.”

Rhaegar’s sins hang over their head, his sins and the sins of every man who has beaten a whore. Rhaenys’s heart softens towards him and she puts her hand in his hair. “I promise you, I’ll tell you when I don’t want it. And if you try anyway, I’ll feed you to my dragon.”

He looks up at her and his eyes are vivid blue. Has she ever seen such blue eyes? “And if you do want it?”

“I’ve been made aware you’ve never had a woman a proper way. Let’s fix that.” And she switches them so that she’s the one sitting on the bed, with him kneeling between her legs and his hands burning hot through the silk on her knees. Her heart hammers in her chest and she feels her smallclothes chafe ever so slightly. “Push up my dress.”

Inch by inch his hands slide up her thighs and brings her dress and petticoat with it. She has silk stockings on, they end above her knee and his nostrils flare where the silk ends and her olive skin begins. All the way up her hem goes, until he’s face to face with her small clothes. He inhales and she shivers to see him lick his lips. She’s always known that Robb is attractive, delicious, but now? Now she wants to ride his face until dawn.

He kisses her inner thigh and she lets her head roll back. “More,” she directs him. He kisses all over her thighs, and even dares to suck on her soft flesh until she crosses her ankles on his back. She takes his hand and slides it down her small clothes to her pussy. “Feel this?” His gaze burns into hers and her blood burns with desire. “I’m wet for you, feel it? This is how women feel when they desire you.” She rubs his fingers against her lips, her slit, up to her clit. She names them all and he nods. Then she raises her hips. “Get these off.”

Her smallclothes land in a pile somewhere behind them, it hardly matters. Not when he stares at her pubic hair like it’s a holy treasure, not when he nuzzles his nose right into her mound and his lips brush against her clit. Rhaenys moans; a real one, not the keens of a trained whore, but a needy one. The last time this happened she was seventeen and her uncle Oberyn’s squire Nymor ate her pussy until she finished twice. But Nymor is somewhere far away married to some Jordayne lady, and right now she has her betrothed’s tongue teasing the hood of her clit. All that matters right now is Robb’s head between her legs, his hands holding her legs apart, him right where she wants him.

“Be careful,” she pants. “That is very sensitive, it’ll hurt if you’re too rough and—ah,” she arcs her back. His tongue is hot and wet against her, he licks steady up and down her clit and pleasure clenches deep in her core. Gods, he’s a natural. Rhaenys grabs his right hand and sucks on his fingers, and she feels him grow against her clit. She shudders. She should’ve done this weeks ago! She laves her tongue around his fingers, making them nice and wet as she is. She pulls back with a pop and tells him, “I like tongue more than fingers, but you have nice fingers. Start with one, and gently curl upwards.”

He slides a finger in her, the longest middle one, and she imagines what his cock will feel like in her pussy. Is he big? Long? In the end it’s the hips that matter most, the thrusting upwards. And Robb takes a minute to find a proper rhythm with his tongue and hand working in tandem, but when he does—when she does, Rhaenys cries out. Her thighs clench around his head and she clings to his hair with one hand, her other hand clutching at the front of her dress. She can hardly breathe. But suppose next time she wears a Pentoshi farthingale to make her skirts extra voluminous, and sneaks him beneath them? Have him drown in her pussy in the gardens, in the throne room, in the sept. Rhaenys burns and her thighs tremble. All the while he laps at her pussy, and she hears it. Macaroni in a pot. Rhaenys opens her mouth to laugh, but then he slides in another finger and curls upwards and oh!

_Oh!_

Rhaenys throws her head back and sighs high and long. Her orgasm sears from her chest and the arches of her feet towards her pussy until it erupts and her hips roll against his face and she can hardly see. He milks it out of her, he licks her clit until she thrashes. Then he pulls back and sucks on his fingers. His beard is wet, his cheeks are smeared with her and Rhaenys has never seen something as perfect.

He learns down and kisses her inner lips like kissing her knuckles. She giggles, and he kisses her all over her pussy, her thighs, up her stomach to her lips. She loves the taste of herself on his tongue, her smell on his breath. She can feel his erection hard and hot against her hip as he crouches over her, and presses her hips up. He growls and ruts against her. Rhaenys wants him. She tells him, “Switch places with me. I want your cock in my mouth.”

He gasps and she sucks on his lip. She tears at his shirt and he rips the stays on the back of her dress with one loud sundering that makes her pussy throb. Soon their clothes are with her smallclothes, and Rhaenys has his cock in her hands. He’s perfectly sized, one fist at his base and the other beneath the tip. She watches his expression as she licks the crown of his cock, and it’s similar to when they first met. But the fear is awe, and desire, and need, and perhaps even love. And she loves the weight of his cock in her mouth, the taste smearing on her tongue. She’s never done this before, admittedly, but her cousin Nymeria told her the basics: mouth on top, hands on bottom, and grip hard enough until his thighs clench. Robb’s thighs are thick and strong from years of horse riding and Rhaenys wants to ride him. Who cares about her maidenhead if they’re marrying? No, she’d rather feel every inch of him inside her and clench herself until he commissions an altar for her.

When he’s trembling and whimpering her name, she stops. She pushes down on his shoulders, she rubs her pussy against his cock until they’re both writhing. He slides his fingers in her again, one and two and three and four, with his thumb ribbing circles on her clit. She can hear how wet she is, she hopes he hears it too and memorizes the sound. He wraps his hands around her hips and murmurs, “Tell me to stop if it hurts.”

She nods and sucks a kiss on his neck just to hear him cry out. Then she slides down, down, all the way down, and she gasps because it’s hard and hot and slick and stretching. She’s atop him. She adjusts herself, she rocks back and forth to find an angle she likes. And when she does, Rhaenys doesn’t hesitate. Why should she? Up, and down—he thrusts up to meet her when she rides him and his hands grip so hard on her hips that she hopes she’ll bruise. He reaches behind to squeeze her ass and she flushes.

Fuck! Gods above, Rhaenys makes the most embarrassing noises because he’s a perfect fit, she clenches her pussy around him and Robb looks ready to flip her over and fuck her in half. Maybe on their wedding night, and then the night after that, and after that—she giggles because she gets it now. To think she thought men were useless before; she’ll have to make an exception for him.

Robb reaches up to cup her face. “Kiss me,” he whispers, and Rhaenys nearly comes just from just his voice. He leans up to kiss her, and he devours her as his hips move faster and his thumb brushes against her clit. For a while all they can hear is the sound of her fucking him, him fucking her, their skin slapping and the wetness soaking into the sheets and them gasping for breath. Thoughts fragment in her mind. Suppose next time he’s on top, or she ties his wrists down, or he bends her over a table, or she rides him on her Small Council chair, or he fucks her senseless in the godswood of Winterfell? She babbles this all to him and she can feel him shudder with every delicious desire, feel his cock slide out and thrust back in with no effort at all because she’s wet for him.

“Remember this,” she pants against his lips, _“this_ is what desire feels like.”

He comes first, with his back arcing and him roaring nameless pleasure. Rhaenys shudders to feel his seed fill her up, and the warmth spreads all over her body. Robb pants beneath her, then moves her onto his thigh and clenches so that his muscle is hard against her. Rhaenys understands, and grinds against him. She’s slick with both of their wetness, and her clit is throbbing from where she’s pressing down hard, and she hears him murmuring under his breath. “Ride me, this is all yours princess, just for you, use me—”

He’s hers, only hers, and she’s his, only his, and her climax crashes down over her like ocean waves against the cliffs. She collapses onto his chest and writhes because he grinds his thigh up against her overwhelmed pussy until she begs him to slow down. Then they just lie there.

After a while, Robb kisses her forehead and says, “So…I can safely say that I’ve never done that before…”

“Don’t worry,” Rhaenys huffs out a breathless laugh, “we have many more times to try again.”

She dreams of her wedding that night. She dreams of her wedding, and her marriage to this man holding her to his chest, and how surely they can split their time between Winterfell and Kings Landing as Lord and Lady Hand, and she’ll need moon tea and carrot seed soup lest they’ll have eleven children…

Rhaenys dreams of him, and how happy they’ll be.

How could they not be? They have all the time in the world to do this again, and again, and again.

**Author's Note:**

> Because we need more shameless Robb/Rhaenys smut in the fandom amirite lmao
> 
> There’s a line between writing idealized explicit sex and pornographic sex. For example, it’s good that writers acknowledge that most people with vaginas are and should be wet when aroused and that’s explicit in good sex. But to constantly overemphasize that yes you may need a bucket and a mop, as well as focusing more on penetrative sex and having people scream and howl like banshees, is an artifact of the pornography industry. And for various reasons porn has ruined realistic sex for a lot of people.
> 
> So here I tried to write ideal sex (no skin stuck together, no farts, no awkward positions, etc.) that wasn’t pornographic (no screaming, no exaggerated stamina, no simultaneous orgasms, etc.) It’s easier said than done, especially since the vibe of this story was Rhaenys being confident in her sexuality and sharing it with Robb. Hopefully I did a good job lol


End file.
